Cut Glass Wings
by SuperSecretSummer
Summary: Oneshot, alternate final lair scene. Erik is unexpectedly wounded the night before Christine's final performance of Faust. Based on the sickness/injury prompt "How did this happen?" on tumblr.


It was foolishness, really, that brought him to the boy's door.

Or window, rather.

Foolishness and pride.

Look where it had gotten him.

Oh, he had enjoyed the moment immensely, watching the boy squirm under the glow of his yellow eyes. Was it The Ghost? Was it a cat? Was it two bright stars?

It was fun.

Just a harmless bit of fun, a way to scare the boy, scare him away, scare him onto his ship and onto the ice so he could freeze and die and leave Christine alone.

He winced at the pain in his abdomen as he maneuvered through back streets and alleyways toward the Opera house.

In all his planning, he'd forgotten the boy was a soldier, and soldiers carried guns, and now the yellow-eyed cat was bleeding.

Stupid, foolish.

Erik knew he was better for her in all the ways that mattered. He was smarter. He was more talented. He knew music, and Christine was music.

Yes, the boy was handsome and wealthy and could walk in the sun, but Erik had his own wealth, Erik had his own ways, Erik had his voice.

The ground seemed to tilt for a moment and he collided with a wall. Not much further now. He could do this, he could make it.

The streets blurred and twisted and only some innate call to find shelter kept him moving. He felt his way through his tunnels blind, and crawled the last few feet to his bathroom.

Gripping the edge of the sink, he pulled himself up. His shirt was soaked, sticky, and he hissed through his teeth as he peeled the cloth from his body. Vials and lotions and pretty bottles of scent he'd purchased for her use clattered around him as he swept his hand through the cabinet. He pulled down a roll of bandages, a suture kit, and a bottle of alcohol.

He tried to light a match, and another, and another. They kept slipping. He couldn't quite grasp…again, and again, until finally the match took, and he waved the flame over the needle's point.

He took a few quick, bracing breaths, bit down on a washcloth and poured a healthy splash of the liquor onto his open wounds.

The pain was immediate, and he almost choked on the rag in his mouth as he gasped involuntarily. Fingers shaking, body shaking, he started the slow, arduous process of stitching up the two gunshot wounds as best he could. His eyes were watering and it was hard to see and he ripped his mask from his face, sparse strands of hair tickling his cheeks as felt his way through the final stitches.

The needle fell into the sink with a clatter, and he took the washcloth out of his mouth. Wetting a clean cloth, he gently sponged the area around the sutures as best he could, but knew he couldn't delay the inevitable for long. Slowly, slowly, with the trepidation of a boy on his way to be punished, he pulled a large, square mirror from its hiding place beneath the sink and placed it on the counter.

He observed the suture, making sure that every stitch was tight and straight before splashing the area again with the alcohol and wrapping the area with clean bandages. The tears from the pain refused to subside, coming instead from somewhere deep inside himself as he took in the angry red of the blood against the tired yellow of his skin, puckered old scars and bones too close to the surface. His breathing labored as he tilted, tilted, tilted the mirror. Skinny arms, scrawny neck, and always, always the papery, tired yellow of old leather, of used and discarded things. He met his own, shadowed eyes in the mirror for a long moment, watched the muscles of his jaw move as he clenched his teeth, ran his eyes over the streak of blood that he had managed to smear on his forehead, stared into the crowing glory that was the great, black hole in the middle of his face.

He was a dead man, covered in blood.

That was all he had to offer her.

His chest began to heave as his breathing came fast and ragged, spittle forming at the edges of his thin lips as he gripped the sides of the mirror. This was what he was offering her. A dead man covered in blood. A dead man covered in blood. A dead man who stank of decay and rot and old things and the dark and she, she, she was sunflowers and the air and that butterfly he saw that day mama forgot to close the window all the way, gold and red and flying across blue, and he was Don Juan on the edge of triumph and the mirror's decorative frame was biting into his hands and he was still, he was still, HE WAS STILL–

He heaved the mirror above his head, poised to send it crashing to the ground.

It was her mirror.

His arms stayed above his head. He had bought it for her, thought she might like the pretty, gilded flowers scrolling around the edges. She would need it when she was his wife. He stood panting, gasping, his arms trembling from the loss of blood and the weight of the mirror, and with a scream that tore at the back of his throat he swung the mirror down, clutching it to his chest with a final, broken cry.

He slid the mirror back into its hiding spot with a controlled calm he did not feel. The room was growing dark around him. He stumbled out of the bathroom and into the sitting room before the darkness overtook him.

o…oOo…o

The carpet was rough against his unmasked face when he finally came to, and the clock was ringing in the hour. He counted the gongs. Four…five…six…seven…eight…

Eight?

He scrambled to his feet too quickly, and a wave of dizziness washed over him. He leaned against the arm of the couch and pushed toward the kitchen.

Eight in the morning or eight at night?

The cupboards were fully stocked in preparation for his bride's arrival, and he pulled a chunk of bread from a loaf, and sliced a small wedge of cheese from a larger wheel. The food was hard to get down, it always was, but he needed his strength this evening.

He sat at the table for a few moments in silence until he felt his equilibrium return. The question remained…eight in the morning? Or eight at night?

He grabbed a clean mask and the little bag of Life and Death from it's hook and crossed through the Louis-Phillippe room. Her room now. It once carried the stench of memories best left forgotten, of his mother crying, crying in that bed when she saw him come, young and trembling, to her room for comfort after a nightmare, but the scent had dissipated, lifted, been replaced by a sweet scent, her scent, lilacs and the lotion she loved and the air outside.

He pulled a key from the little leather bag and opened the door to the torture chamber. He settled the mask on his face before he walked into the room of mirrors, ignoring his lanky reflection as he crossed to the iron tree. After a complicated series of gentle taps and tugs on various metal twigs, there was a cracking sound. A gap had formed between the trunk of the tree and one of the branches, and he turned the branch like a crank until panel opened in the ceiling. A ladder slid from the panel and he climbed up into the darkness. Using his fingertips, he lifted the trap door just enough to break the seal and let in sound. Violins and drums and cellos and trumpets, and floating over all of it, like a butterfly, was her sweet voice.

Eight at night, then, and that at least half an hour ago.

There wasn't much time at all.

Stupid, foolish. The Vicomte would have been plenty scared when Christine never arrived for their assignation. He should have left well enough alone.

His plan had many facets, many moving parts, smoke, mirrors, things to turn the attention away from him and away from her. Her disappearance from the world above was meant to be nothing more than a quiet ripple. But now there wasn't time for that. Now the plan would have to change.

He scrambled down the ladder and raced through the house, hastily wiping up the bloody sink and discarding the bandages, grabbing a case of doctored bottles, and slipping necessary tools into his pockets.

He rowed quickly across the lake. He was still reforming the plan, still examining what pieces were necessary and which could be discarded, and it wouldn't do to be found at the opposite edge of the lake without the boat. The rowing motion pulled at his stitches, and his breaths came out in tiny hisses through his teeth.

He slipped up through the tunnels, past the mirror looking into her dressing room, through the walls and down to the gas organ that controlled the lighting.

The walls around the organ were peppered with panels he had installed long ago, panels he could reach through to fiddle with valves and turn certain knobs should the lighting need an immediate adjustment. He took a few, precious minutes to peer through these panels, locate the bottles of ale that the men in the room were drinking, and switch them with the doctored bottles he had brought with him.

Intermission. He could hear the sound of the audience rising and falling like the swell of the sea above and around him as he prepared a soft place for Christine to land. He made his way to a discreet corner of the stage, hidden in the folds of the curtains, and watched an act of the opera. Let the boy gaze on her, let him plan their future from his lofty box seat. The boy would not have her after tonight. The world would not have her after tonight.

He savored the sound of her voice ringing out into the theater. Her pure, crystalline voice filling his opera house for the last time. After tonight, her voice would belong only to him.

He slipped away from the safety of the curtains and made his way back down to the gas organ. Perfect timing. He pushed open one of the larger panels and climbed into the room, stepping over the bodies of the unconscious men as he made his way to the master switch. The switch was spring-loaded to prevent losing light during a show, an invention of his own design. If flipped by mistake, the switch would spring back up automatically, ensuring that the gas stayed running until someone latched it into the off position each night.

Or held it down long enough.

He pulled a long cord from his pocket and tied one end to the switch. Threading the cord under one of the low bars screwed into the floor at the base of the organ, he left a bit of slack as he wrapped the other end into the gears of one of the pumps. The slack in the cord grew tighter with each pump of the machine, and he watched with satisfaction as the switch shifted down an inch. If all went according to plan, the cord would hold the switch down long enough to cut off the gas before snapping and releasing the switch, turning the gas back on.

He made his way back to the cushion he had positioned beneath the stage. Earlier in the show, Mephistopheles made his entrance into Faust's chambers through this trapdoor, but the stagehands had all flitted to the flies, leaving the space beneath stage quite deserted.

He reached for the latch of the trapdoor and held it. Waiting, waiting, waiting…

The stage creaked above him as the actors moved across it, and he could hear her beautiful voice swelling into a crescendo. She stepped onto the trapdoor, and he caught a glimpse of her golden hair through the seams above him.

"Holy angel, in Heaven blessed, My spirit longs with thee to rest!" She sang out, glorious, resplendent, incandescent. His heart swelled inside him at the sound, at the words, and in that moment, the lights went out.

The screams from the audience drowned out the sound of her fall and the trapdoor re-latching. Drowned out the sound of her terrified gasp of "Erik?" before the chloroformed cloth came down. Drowned out the sounds of her struggling.

She went limp just as the gaslights slowly seeped back to life. He flung the cushion into a dark corner and pain ripped across his stomach at the sudden movement. He gasped but pushed pass the feeling, letting the adrenaline of the moment cancel out everything else. He heaved Christine over his shoulder with another slice of pain and hurried down the stairs to the third cellar, to the flats from _Le roi de Lahore_. He had left the trapdoor to the torture room unlatched, and he kicked it open before carefully descending with his precious cargo. He noticed a slick of blood on the cellar floor as he latched the trapdoor, and he went down the ladder as fast as he was able. Was it Christine? Was she hurt? Had the fall done her harm? She was growing heavier and heavier the longer he carried her, and he staggered under her dead weight as he reached the bottom. He laid her gently on the floor as he cranked the ladder back into place and locked the branch back in place.

It took more effort than it should have to lift her off the floor, and he caught a glimpse of the two of them, cracked and fractured where Joseph Buquet's boots had ruined his perfect illusion, her hair, long and loose, cutting a soft, pale swath across his dark reflection. He looped an arm about her waist and rested her head on his shoulder as he half-carried, half dragged her across the room, reaching up with his free hand to press the small indentation that sprung the door open. He pulled her through the opening and into her room before the door closed behind him with a soft click. He made it to the sitting room, sweat dripping beneath his mask and struggling for breath as he laid her gently on the sofa.

She was covered in blood.

"No. No. No no no no no no no no," he muttered in a whispered chant and he searched for the wound. He head was fine, her arms, her hands, there weren't even any holes in her dress.

An idea, murky and dim, surfaced, and he put his hand to his own stomach. His long fingers came away red. Dark, angry red against the tired, tired yellow. He had to fix this. He needed to-

He crashed back to the floor as his legs gave out from beneath him.

Christine began to stir.

He pulled himself into a sitting position and rested his head on the couch near hers. He watched her eyes move beneath closed lids, watched her lashes twitch on her freckled cheeks, watched her brows furrow as she fought her way into consciousness. Her eyes fluttered open gently, and she gasped at the sight of the masked face so close to her own. She scrambled into a sitting position, kicking him accidentally as she pulled her knees to her chest. She wore the long, white, sleeveless tunic of Marguerite's prison scene, stained in places with that angry red, and she bundled the end of her skirts about her bare feet in an attempt at modesty. They stared at each other for a long, tense moment. Her blue eyes never left his, and he watched as tears began to pool at her lashes.

"Erik, let me go." Her voice was a timid whisper.

"You were going to leave me," he said, his tongue thick and heavy.

"Erik." Her voice was harder now. "Let me go."

"You were going to leave me." He matched her tone, pushing himself himself to his knees and grabbing fistfuls of her dress. "You were going to leave."

She shoved him off of her and leapt from the couch, putting distance between them until she backed into the piano with a discordant twang.

"Yes. Yes, I was going to leave you. I am going to leave you." She was shaking, and tears slipped quietly down her cheeks. "You've lied to me."

He pushed himself up. Up again to his knees, up again to his feet, leaning heavily against the couch.

"You've manipulated me."

He straightened to his full height. She leaned back further against the piano, eyes wide, knuckles white, trying so hard to be brave.

"You've frightened me."

Her simple words hit him like shrapnel.

"It's because I'm not handsome, isn't it?" He pushes the word through gritted teeth. "It's my face? You're terrified of Erik's face? If I was good-looking, if I looked like that boy-"

"It's not your face!" She pushed off the piano and moved toward him, a fire burning, a living flame, voice low and dangerous. "I stopped caring about your face a long time ago. You threatened the man I love. You treated me like some sort of pawn in your power-play for the opera."

Her stained white tunic and golden hair blazed in the light, and he squinted against the glare. She stalked toward him, a vision, missing only a flaming sword to completely the picture in his mind. A few scattered notes played somewhere in the back of his head, he itched for a pen, a piano, but there wasn't time for that.

"You used my pain against me. You used my sorrow to sew us together. You used my father-" her voice broke, and she shifted back into Christine as she stopped in front of him. Her voice grew higher and louder as she strove to maintain control. "You twisted my father's promise into something dark and frightening and I am leaving because I don't have to stay! I am leaving because I owe you nothing! I am leaving because I am afraid of you, and I don't want to be afraid anymore!"

Her words ended on a ragged sob, and he collapsed under the weight of what he had done to her. He only ever wanted to be outside, to touch the wings of the red gold butterfly as it cut a path across the blue blue sky. But butterfly's wings aren't meant for touching, and their tiny feathers come off their cut glass wings like so much dust. He never meant to take the sky from her.

He felt her arms around him, slowing his descent to the floor. She crumpled beneath his weight and they both fell.

"Erik? Erik?" Her voice was high, panicked. She pulled at him as best she could, shifting him in her lap until she saw his blood-stained waistcoat. She touched the dark stain and looks at her reddened fingertips. "How did this happen?"

"Stupid, foolish, pride." He whispered. Her face floated above him, haloed by the lamp behind her. He did not want to tell her it was the boy. "My own fault."

"Let me see," she said, pulling at the buttons of his shirt, "let me see it, I can help."

"No, no!" He pushed gently at her hands, not wanting her to see the puckered, gnarled, tired yellow leather of his skin. "No, it is too late for that."

"No…no…it can't be." The words were like a plea. She clung to his hands. "Not like this. You can't go like this."

She dissolved into wordless sobs, and he could feel her tears on his hairline, his chin.

"You have to stay alive!" She said through clenched teeth, shaking him gently. "You have to stay alive so I can stay mad at you! I'm the one leaving! I'm the one leaving, not you!"

He pulled the mask off to catch the precious droplets, to feel them on his skin. She did not flinch, did not pull back from the sight of him.

"Are you crying for Erik?" His words came out stilted and harsh, and his chest rattled as he struggled to breathe. Her hair was a golden curtain. All he could see was her. He reached a trembling hand and cupped her face, brushing away a tear with his thumb. She put her hand over his, trapping it against her cheek.

"Don't go, I'm sorry, I'll stay with you, just…not you too, you can't leave me too…" Her words were hard to understand, but struck a chord inside of him as very wrong.

"No, Christine. Don't apologize. Not too me. I-" He turned his head away as a wet cough racked his body, and he felt her arms grow tighter around him. He could feel a trickle of something run from the corner of his mouth as he turned to face her. "I am…sorry, Christine. All I wanted was…a measure of happiness…for you to be happy…with me…but that was selfish."

"Erik-"

"Selfish. You are…too good…too kind…to be chained in the dark with something like me"

"Don't say that-"

"It is better this way, Christine…and I am sorry…for all of it…" With every ounce of strength he had, he pulled her hand towards his lips and pressed a kiss to it. A slash of red glistened against her skin, and he dragged his eyes toward her face, her beautiful, crying, living face. Alive alive alive! His breathing was rapid and ragged. "You did not die! Erik kissed you and you did not die!"

His breaths grew faster, shallower, and she smiled at him, a small, sad thing. She leaned down towards him, the tendrils of her silken hair brushing his cheeks, lips, throat like a benediction. She pressed a soft kiss to his brow and rested her forehead against his.

"I forgive you, Erik." She breathed, and her sweet scent lingered about him as he drifted off to sleep.

o…oOo…o

Christine pushed her way through the mirror before stumbling a few steps back toward the dark tunnel. She hadn't expected anyone to be in her room.

"Christine?" Raoul rushed towards her and scooped her into his arms. He held her for a long moment, but she couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't lift her arms. He pulled back and looked at her, saw the blood on her gown. He ran his hands over her arms, her face, trying to find the wound. "What happened? Are you alright?"

Christine looked at the gleaming gun in Raoul's cummerbund, and it's twin held by the other man in the room. That strange man…the Persian? She looked between the two in confusion."This is the Daroga," Raoul said gently, "he was going to help me find you. He knows…he knows about _him_."

Christine felt the heat of tears in her eyes as she looked at the man. His face seemed to fall, just a fraction, as understanding hit him. There was a rough knock on her door. The Daroga opened it.

"Mademoiselle Daae is here, she is well. She fell through a trap-door in the stage and hit her head. Got lost on her way back to her room. She is fine now."

The older gentleman closed the door on the inquiring voices beyond, and she saw sorrow matching her own in his kind face. She turned back to Raoul and leaned against his chest. His arms went around her, and slowly, slowly, she slipped her arms around him, clinging tighter and tighter as if he was driftwood and she was alone in the middle of the sea. Her eyes found the the Daroga's as she whispered:

"Erik is dead."


End file.
